The Practice Room
by BlackElement7
Summary: It's summer camp, and summer is a time for relaxation. Alfred can't figure out for the life of him why Matthew needs to rush around so much.  Choice of Prussia/Canada or France/Canada
1. Chapter 1

**So I'm not dead. Errrr... That is, if anyone who reads this happened to switch fandoms with me. Haha, I seem to have abandoned my previous fandoms completely. Many profuse apologies, but I probably won't be going back. *scratches back of head sheepishly***

**Anyway, I went to this arts camp called Interlochen this summer, and took a writing course. We had regular writing assignments every day (as would be expected), so what better to write about than Hetalia? Haha, I had way too much time on my hands. Anyway, some of the programs were for three weeks, some were for two, some were for four, and others (music included) were six weeks. Inspiration (read: plot bunny) struck when I heard someone practicing repeatedly in the practice hut outside my cabin for a couple of days in a row. I wondered what would happen if something like this were to take place, and... voila.**

**Please excuse any suckish language mistakes. Except for English. Because that would be unforgiveable. (Is anyone still reading this...?)**

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Matthew Williams looked down at his watch for the fourth time in the last two minutes, impatiently counting the seconds left until class ended.

When the teacher finally dismissed them, he shot up in his seat, hastily shoving his supplies into his bag.

"You sure are in a hurry," Alfred laughed good-naturedly from beside him, taking his sweet time. "Where are you going?"

Matthew, already halfway out the door, didn't bother to explain. "It's almost one," he worried to himself as he trotted down the long road to the boys' cabins. "I'm going to be late!"

For the last few weeks, at exactly five minutes past one, the melodic sound of a violin had been emanating forth from the practice hut that was located right beside his cabin. Sometimes the music was calm and soothing; other times it was wild and unrestrained.

Of course there was the occasional mistake—the player was practicing, after all. However, Matthew liked to listen to him (or her) slowly improve, tweaking the notes until the tune was just right.

Whenever he heard the familiar strains of Beethoven or Debussy, a blush spread across his face. He felt almost as if he was intruding on something private, something intimate; but it was too beautiful to give up, and he figured that as long as the musician didn't find out, it was okay.

He had gotten back in time. As he kicked his shoes off and clambered into his bunk, the now-familiar sound of a violin being carefully tuned reached his ears. He turned toward the window and peered out of it. The door to the practice room was wide open, but the player stayed out of view. Somehow, no matter how hard Matthew tried, someone always interrupted before he could identify the mystery figure. He wasn't even sure if he wanted to know their identity.

It was his one guilty pleasure during the duration of this long camp, so far away from home. He hummed quietly as he closed his eyes and let the music wrap itself around his brain.

Today's piece was the Mozart that the symphonic orchestra had been rehearsing—he'd heard it on his way to class that morning. Played with the whole group, the piece was majestic; performed by a lone violin, it was hauntingly ethereal.

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**Normally I hate it when prologue/first chapters are ridiculously short and the author promises to make following chapters longer, but this can't be helped. You see, there are two endings for this story. With too much time on my hands, I sort of branched off in two directions. Therefore, you have a few choices: if you wish Prussia was still in existence, you may take yourself to chapter 2. If you fancy a violin-wielding Frenchman, you may skip over to chapter 3. Or, if you also find yourself with lots of extra time, you can read chapter 2, come back and reread the last few paragraphs of this chapter, and then read chapter 3. It's your choice.**

**I'd offer you two different coloured pills, but that would be silly.**


	2. Chapter 2

**You asked for Prussia, yes? Well, don't let me keep you!**

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He shot straight up when a jarring chord sliced through the humid summer air, sharp and piercing. It was followed abruptly by a low growl and frustrated mutterings.

He broke off in the middle of humming along: he knew the next note, but the player seemed to be having trouble.

Quietly pushing his feet into his sneakers, Matthew shuffled out of the cabin. He peeked around the corner, and when the coast was clear, made his way to the side of the practice hut. Inside, a deep and decidedly masculine voice was grumbling its discontent, random notes being plucked from the strings agitatedly. Every so often, the violinist would begin a few measures back, only to stumble repeatedly at the same spot.

Matthew watched the player's shadow pace back and forth for a while before daring to poke his head through the door. "Eh, I think it's an F sharp," he offered meekly, ducking his head apologetically.

The violinist, a scowling boy with platinum-blond hair, regarded him strangely. After a moment, though, he turned back to the music and fingered the line once more. His face cleared and he admitted, "Y'know what, I think you're right, birdie."

Without allowing Matthew to protest the nickname, he immediately raised the instrument to his shoulder and drew the bow over the strings. His fingers flew in the correct positions, and this time the melody sounded strong and true.

Matthew held his breath, watching the boy run quickly through the last two pages of the movement before setting his violin down.

The blonde squeaked at the intensity of the other boy's red gaze. (Red eyes! Was he albino?) "Y-yes?"

The boy continued to stare.

"I'm sorry for interrupting you!" he babbled, panicking and spinning around. "I just—your music was so wonderful, and I—I'll leave now!"

"Woah, hang on a second, birdie." The violinist reached out and snagged the sleeve of Matthew's hoodie. The Canadian faltered, violet eyes flying up to meet his captor's. "Where did you come from, first of all?'

Matthew pointed a trembling finger. "M-my cabin's over there," he stammered. "I've been listening to you play, but you sounded like you couldn't get past that note… I'm sorry!" He squeezed his eyes shut as the musician's ruby orbs narrowed.

"Nah." Suddenly, the grip on his clothing loosened. "It's okay. I'm just not used to having people watch me practice." He paused. "Wait, how long have you been stalking me?'

"I don't stalk you!" Matthew protested, flushing. "I only listen when you come here to practice! That's only an hour every day! _And_ it's only six days a week, because you don't come here on Sundays."

The violinist raised a skeptical eyebrow.

Matthew paled. "Oh, shit. I really _am_ a stalker, eh?"

The other boy watched in slight amusement at he began to hyperventilate. "Chill, birdie. It's okay."

"Why do you keep calling me that, anyway?"

He shrugged. "I dunno your real name. And you're so shy, like a birdie."

Matthew frowned. "My name's Matthew Williams, eh. You can call me that."

"Gilbert Beilschmidt," the player grinned, holding out a hand. "But you can call me 'Awesome Gilbert', birdie."

"Stop calling me that!"

"Why?" Gilbert pouted. "It fits you."

Matthew's blush deepened. "…Shut up. Where are you from?"

Gilbert smirked. "Cabin 21. Why? Did you want to have a play-date?"

The blonde smacked his arm lightly. "Stupid, I meant what part of the world? Your accent's not American, is it?"

"Oh." The albino chuckled. "I'm from Germany. My little brother came here last year and decided to drag me with him this year. What about you?"

Matthew's eyes widened. "Germany? That's awesome!" The question registered. "Oh, I'm from Canada. Up north, eh?"

"Ah." Gilbert nodded. "That's why you can stand out here in shorts and a hoodie, yes?"

The Canadian shrugged. "I guess. It's not really that cold." He looked the other boy's unbuttoned shirt and dark blue slacks thoughtfully. "You don't seem that cold."

Gilbert snickered. "It's 'cause I'm so awesome. You should see Luddy—my brother. He's bundled up so much it's ridiculous."

"I guess it can be cold for someone who isn't used to this kind of weather," Matthew agreed. "Oh, I'm so sorry! I'm taking up your practice time, aren't I?" He began to slip away.

"Hey, birdie."

Gilbert's voice stopped him in his tracks, even as he pivoted to scold the German for using the nickname. "Huh?'

Gilbert studied the hairs on his bow, not meeting Matthew's eyes. "Come and find me sometime tomorrow, okay? You're pretty cool, I guess. Maybe we can do some stuff together or something."

Matthew nodded hesitantly. "Cabin 21, right? I'll try to find you."

"Cool!" Gilbert grinned. "I've got someone to hang around with! It gets kinda lonely with no one but my baby brother to bug."

"It's been almost three weeks, eh?" Matthew pointed out gently. "There's only a few days of camp left."

The violinist shook his head. "I'm a music major, remember? I'm here for six whole weeks. That's practically my whole frikkin' summer!"

Matthew traced patterns in the dirt with his toe. "I'll be gone soon. I'm only a visual arts major."

"I knew it!" Gilbert exclaimed in triumph. "I totally called it! Y'know, you look like a VA, birdie. Well, you can still email me, yeah? I know we're not supposed to have computers, but Francis in my cabin managed to smuggle his iPhone in."

"Is that really okay…?"

"It's fine," Gilbert waved his worrying away. "Anyway, I have to learn this next movement now, so I'm gonna keep practicing."

"Can I listen?"

The violinist picked up his violin, scoffing. "That's so gay," he said derisively, but he watched Matthew out of the corner of his eye. "…Just keep quiet."

Matthew agreed eagerly, leaning against the wooden wall of the hut.

With a final, soft snicker, Gilbert raised the violin to his chin. The music resumed.

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**Tell me what you think? Or keep going and _then_ tell me when you've finished with Francis also? XD**


	3. Chapter 3

**You have found yourself a France!**

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He had just begun to doze off when he realized that the notes had faded away. When he strained his ears, he could just barely make out a smooth voice muttering to itself. It was sporadically punctuated by the same line, over and over. Each time, the player would falter at the same note.

Curious, Matthew jammed his shoes onto his feet and pulled on his hoodie. Closing the cabin door behind him, he crept through the trees toward the practice hut. About five feet away from the open door, he realized that the soft stream of words floating through the air was actually a ribbon of French curses. His strange Quebec-French allowed him to translate most of the words, and the musician's imaginative phrasing soon had him blushing to the roots of his hair.

Swallowing hard, he peered around the edge of the wall. The tall blond boy inside blinked at him, pausing in the middle of describing what exactly one could do with one's mother's uncle's toenail.

"… 'allo?" The accent that laced that single word was unmistakably French. "Can I 'elp you?"

"H-hello," Matthew stammered. "I was just—I think you're missing the F sharp."

The French student raised an elegant eyebrow. "Are you telling me 'ow to play my instrument?"

Matthew cringed at the disdain that dripped from that pale, perfectly shaped mouth. "I—I—" Shamefaced, he turned to flee.

A quiet chuckle made his eyes widen. "_Cheri_, I apologize," the musician told him. "I was only playing with your 'ead." When Matthew whirled around, his small smirk widened. "Ah, you are _tres mignon_ when you blush! Come in, come in!"

With a graceful wave of his hand, he ushered a bewildered Matthew into the practice hut, closing the door firmly behind him.

Matthew gulped, very aware that he was in a small, enclosed room and alone with this boy—well, man, really, if the stubble on his chin was anything to judge by. "Y-you play wonderfully, eh…"

The violinist beamed, setting the instrument down on a bench. "Ah, thank you! You 'ave been listening to me?"

The Canadian flushed, reluctant to admit his stalkerish ways.

The Frenchman laughed lightly. "No need to be so embarrassed, _cheri_," he chided. "You love music; I can see."

"I do!" Matthew leaned forward slightly, eager to discuss _this_ topic. "I love the Mozart—I love all the pieces the orchestra's doing this year, actually. It's—" He drew back, realizing that his nose was centimeters from the other boy's.

Gentle fingers gripped his chin, bringing his face back to its original position. Light blue eyes observed him with soft amusement, thin lips curling up into a small smile.

" 'ow adorable," the older student cooed, bringing his other hand up to stroke Matthew's hair.

"Umm… I… I'm sorry, um…"

"Oh!" The Frenchman's eyes widened in shock. " 'ow rude! I 'ave forgotten my manners in my excitement! I am Francis Bonnefoy, violin major from Paris. May I know your name, _mon ami_?"

"N-nice to meet you, Francis." Matthew ducked his head. "I'm Matthew Williams. I'm a photography major, from Canada. _Bonjour._"

"Ah… So you understand French?" Francis' eyes gleamed as he nodded approval of Matthew's pronunciation.

Matthew's blush darkened and spread. "A little," he mumbled. "But apparently my accent's really weird."

"Ah, no matter." Francis brushed it away as unimportant. "We will speak English 'ere. _C'est bon._ Now, you were saying something about an F sharp…?"

Matthew nodded hesitantly, pointing out the indicated note. "My cousin plays the violin," he explained when the French student looked at him in askance. "I've heard this piece so many times, but it never gets old. Good music's like that, eh?"

"Hmm…" Francis tested out the new phrase, the pads of his fingers drumming softly against the wood of the instrument. He finally nodded. "I think it will work."

Matthew watched in amazement as music flowed from the small, curvy instrument in Francis' hands. When the older boy managed to cleanly bypass the trouble spot, he put down the violin and gathered Matthew up into an enthusiastic hug.

"Thank you, _Mathieu_," he murmured into an overwhelmed Matthew's ear. " 'ow can I repay you?"

"W-well…" Matthew could hardly believe his daring. "Can I listen to you practice? I've taken up so much of your time already…"

Francis chuckled, releasing the poor boy from his embrace. " 'ow could I refuse? You asked so… You are so… how do you say it… _adorable_!"

Matthew knew that word. His blush, which had been slowly fading, returned with a vengeance. "I'm going to miss listening to you when camp is over," he whispered. He squeaked when something slid into his back pocket.

Francis winked, letting his fingers linger as he withdrew his hand. "Call me when you get your phone back," he told the bright red boy, his voice full of all things suggestive. "France is not so far from Canada, yes?"

Unable to deal with such overwhelming pressure, Matthew fled. Francis grinned after him, wagging his fingers in a fond goodbye.

After all, he would be back tomorrow.

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**Haha, who am I kidding? I don't know the first thing about geography. I really have no idea how easy or hard it is to get from France to Canada or the other way around. Ah, well.**

**Tell me what you think?**


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